


The Dead Man's Tale

by Stareyed



Category: Frostpunk (Video Game)
Genre: (mostly), Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalyptic Log, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Confessions, False Identity, LGBTQ Characters, M/M, Multi, No-one is entirely straight, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 07:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stareyed/pseuds/Stareyed
Summary: While scouting Winterhome for New London, Scout Team Two finds the testament of the final Captain of the doomed city...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this Frostpunk fanfic has been bangin' around awhile in my files, and I realised that it's been sitting at 16 chapters for several weeks now. Hopefully, posting it will motivate me to finish it!
> 
> Of course, kudos and feedback are catnip to any author.... :)
> 
> Please note: 
> 
> 1) THIS WORK IS NOT FINISHED YET, but it is ALSO not abandoned! Positive feedback motivates my depressive ass!  
2) This work is unbeta'd - there may well be serious errors. Please be patient!

THE DEAD MAN’S TALE

“Sir, look what I found!”

Lieutenant Thomas Markham turned to follow the sound, and noticed that a wooden box was affixed to one of the bridge’s support pylons. It was outside the path of the automaton which swept this bridge’s vast steel surface and so had been partly buried under the snow-piles accumulated at the side of the main pathway. As the rest of Scout Team Two had been gawking, it had taken the sharp eyes of Rodgers to notice it despite its garish paint – red, in the shape of a stylized mailed envelope. “What’s inside, Rodgers?”

After some short while of prying at it with his hands, Rodgers was forced to reply, “I dunnae know, Sir. It’s nailed shut – wha’s the point of a mailbox nailed shut?!” Markham’s curiosity was now thoroughly piqued, and he shrugged as he reached for the prybar on his tool-belt and started walking toward Rodgers. “Damned if I know, Rodgers – but let’s see what it carries.” He tossed the prybar at Rodgers, who deftly caught it; as the scout set to work, Markham reflected on just how supple, long and dexterous his fingers were. They certainly wouldn’t have been that way were it not for Captain Keelty’s allowances for his scouts’ comforts on the trail – but he wouldn’t have it any other way! But it was best not to dwell too long on his sinful appreciation of Rodgers’ many talents; what scout teams did (in the field or at base) was largely their own business, but only as long as they kept matters entirely within the team.

Reaching his subordinate, Markham looked down at him (the best angle of view, in his opinion!) before kneeling to work with him (also a position which recalled warm memories) at prying the box open. It was well-secured, but eventually yielded with the audible groan of good timber poorly-tended, and a sheaf of paper was revealed. A diary? No; it was secured together by means of a set of hole-punches, and there was the title. _The Testament of Winterhome – _no author’s name. Well, _that_ boded ill; the raving lunatic who’d made it to New London, proclaiming the doom of the world on account of Winterhome’s fall was apparently not delusional. Captain Keeler was just going to _love _this; already running flat-out to accommodate, feed and heal its newly-settled populace, the last thing New London needed was doomsayers sapping morale!

Markham carefully bundled the document into one of the team’s salvage bags, and motioned for Rodgers to get up, “Now that we’ve secured it, we’re ready to keep going. Let’s move, Rodgers; time’s wasting.” Ever-thrifty, the Scot instead finished neatly reducing the box to a bundle of timber with a minimum of breakage, wrapped it in a salvage belt, and hooked that to a shoulder point on his harness. “An’ _now_ we’re ready to carry on, Sir.” He passed the prybar back to Markham with a cocky smirk, who responded with a small smile of his own even as he tingled with _want_. “...Very good, James. Very good.”

Later that night, Scout Team Two relaxed in the comfort of their gas-heated cabin in the _Wayfarer_ \- truly, New London’s engineers were saints and workers of miracles, each and every one of them. Indulgent with cheery heat and a decent meal, Markham was even prepared to canonize the irascible Frau Halwyth, whose particular idea these gas-fired contrivances were. After finishing dinner cleanup, Markham remembered the document and decided that some evening reading was in order. Stretching idly on the small couch (which caused James to eye him, and the rest of the team to collectively roll their eyes), he motioned over to the table laying out the day’s finds. “James, would you be so good...” Across the cabin, Penny snickered at Thomas’ deliberately pompous tone & phrasing, looking with the other two members of the team at James, who simply looked sour as he stood, his six-foot-plus height towering over everyone else in the cabin. “I look like ya’ manservant, ya’ soft English bawheid? Ye still ken how tae walk on yer own two feet, dunnae?”

This time, the other two of Team Two – Lachlan and Padraigh – joined Penny’s chuckles. Thomas simply looked up at him serenely, until James eventually gave in and ambled over to the table, delicately picking up the paper and bringing it back to Thomas, who felt a _whap_ of paper hitting his head before the sheaf was slapped into his open hand. “Ya’ owe me, bawheid.” Taking the opportunity to stroke James’ hand, which had lingered in easy reach, Thomas murmured, “I’ll be sure to repay you in full later”, as his other hand flicked open the title page. Sensing the avid interest of his team in the papers, Thomas relented and started reading out loud.

_The Testament of Winterhome_

_Hear now, traveler, the testament of Winterhome. This city was intended to be a new beginning; a shelter and sanctuary in a world grown increasingly hostile to human life – instead, it will soon become the tomb of all within its valley. If you are reading this, then you have come across one of the twelve copies I have ordered to be placed in prominent locations within and surrounding our doomed city; you have seen the end of our tale for yourself, and you have questions. Well enough: I shall answer them._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italics mark the Testament's words; plaintext is what's happening as Scout Team Two reads it.

_First, I should describe myself. I am Archdeacon Mark Reynolds, latterly the “Captain”, or leading officer, of Winterhome. I am thirty-six, with brown hair turning grey, brown eyes (fortunately, _not_ turning grey), a naturally fair complexion and a tendency toward stockiness which our short diet does much to combat. I am learned in four languages – our own English, Latin, French and some German. I am a capable cook, decent medical attendant and distinctly less-than-capable coal-miner and steel-worker, having been politely asked to step away from lathes and presses so that more able men (or, embarrassingly, even women) may take up those tasks and achieve more with less wastage of time and materials. I am the man whose decisions have enabled Winterhome to do all we have done these past three tumultuous weeks, achievements of which any community could be proud – as you shall see._

_I am also a fraud and a failure._

_A startling admission to make so bluntly, perhaps; yet, at this juncture, one which I find it surprisingly easy to make. I am a fraud, and have been one my entire adult life. Of perhaps the terms “confidence artist”, “shyster” or “professional scammer” apply instead, to one who has worn dozens of identities and professions the way a jester wears his garish clothing. Yet though I have falsely worn the cassock of an Archdeacon (sewn, seamed and embroidered by myself, a fact of which I am inordinately proud) within the Anglican Communion for so long, it has worked a kind of shaping upon me – I hope, into being a better person. As for “failure” – well, the skeletons of both buildings and citizenry of Winterhome shall be testament enough to satisfy even the most optimistic onlooker. Had I been sufficiently able, both could surely have been avoided, and their fate is upon my head, not their own. They gave their all, they followed loyally, and they died for it. May God have mercy upon my soul._

_A note on the logistics of this manuscript – the script itself is written in some haste. I have little time free for reminiscing as Winterhome shudders through its final, tortured days of life, and must set down whatever comes to mind as soon as it comes to mind, and some narrative wandering is inevitable. The only reason there are multiple copies is that I have tasked scribes with copying this – all of whom have guaranteed safety as the price of their last-minute complicity in my deceit. I have tasked them to copy my manuscript precisely, and my faith in them is absolute; any errors of grammar and format are mine, not theirs. Please judge them not harshly, neither for their complicity nor for any errors in the text. To a man staring certain doom in the face, any bargain for a chance at safety is worthwhile, and I lack time to undertake a more professional review of this manuscript._

_To return to the substance of this telling: At the outset, I must note that I was not the Commanding Officer (“Captain”) of HMES Winterhome, not at first. The singular honour of being the person Her Majesty’s Armed Forces chose for that position belongs to Mark Rotherham, Lieutenant-Colonel of the 15th Yorkshire East Foot. He was placed in command of the three dreadnoughts which carried well over 1,000 souls from the chaos of Yorkshire in the “summer” of 1886. Under his command were Captains Jacob Gittins and Arthur Halvorson, in command of the second and third vehicles respectively. Of the thousand and more, only three hundred were soldiers – one hundred aboard each dreadnought to maintain order and protect Winterhome from whatever dangers lurked. The civilians were chosen with regard for three things – proper ages (we brought with us many children, to ensure long-term viability), robustness and useful skills._

_For myself, I was aboard solely due to my ability to dissemble as a pious, devout clergyman. Rotherham was a devout officer, who wished the colony to have the makings of a spiritual life as well as a physical one, and I knew him by reputation – wishing to survive at any price, I chose to risk the wrath of God by dissembling as one of His servants. With me was a genuine priest whom I had encountered on the journey to York, a son of Russian emigrants named Mihail Alexeyvich Korsilov. We were placed on the third dreadnought, but I get ahead of myself. Allow me to describe Mihail before we proceed further, as he features large in the tale ahead._

_Mihail was a pleasant journeying-companion; besides being athletic and surpassing fair of countenance, he seems even to this day to be an endless font of optimism. More practically, he is ever eager to lead by example and take on more than his share of any duties which need doing – cooking, coal-mining, steel-working, whatever. No task is too dangerous, uncomfortable or inglorious for his taste, and if he knows nothing of how to get it done, he will cheerfully submit to instruction, at which he excels in learning quickly from. If your expedition is from the city which he and our refugees have found shelter in – wherever it may be – I commend him to your service in the highest possible terms. Take him in, nurture him with care and affection, and put his many talents to work. I vow you shall not regret it._

Looking up from the current sheet he was reading aloud, Thomas saw four rapt faces – this chronicle of a dying settlement was too much to look away from. Thomas laid down the manuscript on the small side-table, and answered the murmured complaints with a smile. “It’s running late, friends – and we must get up early as always. I’ll read a part every night, how’s that?” The round of assent was almost instant; Markham’s voice was rich, smooth and slightly husky – “like smoky honey” was one admirer’s term for it. And he was right; it _was _late. Penny, Lachlan and Padraigh had curled together into a human pile on their couch, and James was yawning and stretching at Thomas’ feet. Unable to stop himself, Thomas ruffled James’ hair, prompting a mumbled, _“Dam’ bawheid; ‘m no’ asleep…”_ as he helped the Scot to his feet and the two stumbled off to Cabin One for sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas looked around the cabin, noting that the dishes had been rinsed in record time and the crew had practically wolfed down their dinners. Lachlan was practically bouncing on the couch he shared with Penny, and James was giving him pointed looks. “…I get the point.” Picking up the manuscript from the draw in which he had placed it that morning, he stifled a chuckle at the alacrity with which the rest of the crew had assumed their customary positions in the cabin – Penny and Lachlan on their couch, and Padraigh on a cushion on the decking between them. James restlessly prowled from seat to seat - he always took longer to settle down into one position. Thomas moved the lamp a little closer so as to make out the lettering better, and resumed the tale. “Now, where was I...”

_Having fallen-in with Mihail, I was obliged to maintain the facade of ordination, which I had initially only adopted in order to gain inclusion on the dreadnoughts departing York. Before you condemn me for my deceit, please recall that even a rascal (such as I) has as strong an urge to live as the most holy man in history. And by the time of the expedition’s departure, it had indeed become clear – to remain was death. If you hail from Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, you will know precisely what I mean by this; if you be from elsewhere, simply imagine what happens when every city in a great realm is denied food, slowly and painfully as supplies dwindle to a trickle. The riots, the anarchy, the collapse of even the most basic societal functions and so on. Even our cassocks were insufficient to entirely protect Mihail and I from the mobs, and we were repeatedly assailed by desperadoes _en route_ to the military headquarters. What they wanted, I still dread to consider, but they had it not, thanks to a chance patrol. _

_The patrol was led by a black-haired, black-bearded giant of a man (I would wager him to have been at least six and a half feet tall!) who beat back the mobs, then greeted Mihail and myself with surprising gentility, introducing himself as Captain Arthur Halvorson. We explained our presence, with myself claiming to have been sent from Canterbury and Mihail my assigned assistant, and Captain Halvorson agreed to take us to his commanding officer at once. When the great gate of the Regimental compound closed behind us, I felt safe for the first time in much too long._

_Fortunately, besides being devout, Colonel Rotherham was naturally unsuspicious, and readily accepted my story of Mihail and I being clergy delayed by the unrest. He gladly agreed to allow Mihail and myself to board as the core of the spiritual mission, York’s regular clergy being entirely absent for a variety of reasons. Rotherham’ departure had already been delayed for material shortages; had we been any tardier, Mihail and I would have missed it – and I doubt that Captain Gittins (who regarded us with open suspicion) would have allowed us a place! Rotherham’s dreadnought _Renown _departed the morning after our arrival; Gittins’ _Royal Thistle _two days later. Halvorson’s _Resolute _should have departed at the _Royal Thistle_’s side, but left three days after – slowed by a lack of zinc for galvanising the steel to weather better. I can still recall Gittins’ sneer as he informed Halvorson that of course, of_ course_, he would make _every_ possible allowance in describing Halvorson’s tardiness in his report. And every one of Halvorson’s subordinate officers was of course in the room when he made that remark, which certainly didn’t help the unfortunate Halvorson._

_The journey north was varying degrees of unpleasant in every respect. There was neither sufficient room for health, nor sufficient food for health – both understandable in light of the circumstances, as I counseled complainers, but still unpleasant. The journey was long and cold; again, this was uncomfortable but unavoidable. What was avoidable was Captain Halvorson’s approach to “leadership”, as he styled it. With the benefit of distance and perspective, I name it cruelty and sadism, even as I understand the demons driving him. The first passenger to complain within earshot of a soldier was shortly brought before the Captain and accused of “defeatism” and “malicious gossip”. In a farcical “trial” broadcast across the ship’s intercomms, the most definite recollection I have is Halvorson’s gleeful mockery and bullying, and the tearful pleading of the accused. The whole proceeding stands out in my memories as a nightmarish, pseudo-real scene, something from one of Carroll’s works, only we experienced it instead of reading a fictional tale of it._

_I dared to hope that Halvorson may have sated his appetite for suffering by humiliating and demeaning his victim, and attempted to intercede, pleading for mercy – a mistake on my part. (I can only avoid a charge of outright stupidity by pleading a desire to solidify my stolen identity.) In a quiet, curt voice thrumming with fury, the black-tempered giant, scarce recognisable as the chivalrous officer or erudite dinner companion I had been introduced to in York, bade me “cease interfering” in _his_ chosen punishments on pain of sharing them. I bowed before necessity, and stood down, unable to look either the accused or Mihail in the eye as Halvorson’s sentence of death by steam venting was carried out with grim haste. Too late, I recognised that we may have traded one Hell for another. For the rest of the trip, few passengers dared speak above a whisper at all._

_Yet, as we withdrew to our cramped two-bunk cabin (Mihail, in a fit of humour, yielded the lower bed to me on account of my “great age and infirmity” - the cheek!), I saw no condemnation in Mihail’s eyes, nor even pity for my lack of courage. Instead, he simply asked to sleep at my side that night, lest he be affected by night terrors after watching the spectacle; I agreed with perhaps unseemly haste. At this stage, I will be plain – in addition to my many and varied other sins, I am a sexual invert, only attracted to my own gender. I did not know at that time if Mihail knew, or if he shared my base lusts, and so I was utmost-careful to let on no sign. I could not bear it had he looked at me with contempt or horror, though on this topic, I care not for your judgment – forgiving or harsh, I am beyond its power, and my sexual disorder is not relevant to the fall of Winterhome._

_Fate’s caprice spared me this time, and I awoke the next morning (my sleep untroubled by any terrors that I recalled) before Mihail. I could not resist the temptation to stroke his fair hair gently with my free hand; by good fortune, it did not wake him. He woke some time after, to see me dressed and seated on the bunk’s edge. Perhaps my smile was a trifle too fond when I inquired of his dreams, but his answering small, private smile as he admitted to an excellent night of sleep warmed something within me which I had neglected for years, perhaps decades. This was the one part of the trip that was _not_ unpleasant; however short my days may be, I shall take the memory of that first true, happy smile – not his usual everyday grins - with me to face the Almighty’s judgment. We took to sleeping in the same bunk for the eminently practical reason of conservation of warmth thereafter._

_However, the days of the rest of the trip grew long and longer, and Captain Halvorson’s temper shorter and shorter – in all, over twenty souls were condemned to death for various trivial and arbitrary offences, and another three dozen perished of various illnesses, or simply of giving up hope. In an ominous sign of things to come (which I sadly disregarded at the time), Captain Halvorson insisted on running the dreadnought engines above their rated capacity in order to make up the time we had lost due to our tardy departure. In my view, this was a risky gamble, but he had little interest in any views but his own, or those of his _camarilla _of cronies, sycophants and yes-men. To this day, I believe that they bear the brunt of responsibility for the man he became; whenever he was distant from them, he was a far more decent person, whenever they crowded ‘round him, the swart-tempered barbarian emerged once more._

_For two weeks, all seemed to be going as well as could be expected; the engineers’ warnings notwithstanding, _Resolute_’s engines took the strain of Halvorson’s demands like the champions they were. It was near the end of our journey, some fourty miles from Winterhome, when disaster struck. An immense explosion, followed immediately by a tooth-rattling grinding sound, shook the _Resolute _from one end to the other, and secondary engines and systems immediately began to cease operating. The _Resolute_’s engine had given their all, but were unequal to Halvorson’s extraordinary demands._

_As panic began to spread, the unmistakable sounds of gunfire rang throughout the _Resolute, _and every citizen swiftly raced to their quarters – or whatever other hiding-hole was convenient. I later learned that, driven to a fury, Halvorson had executed every engineer within his reach for their “failure to properly maintain the engines”. After some minutes had passed since the last gunshot, I ventured toward the bridge, fearing what I would encounter yet knowing we needed to encounter _something_, or else our journey would end here and now. When I found the _Resolute_’s bridge, I nearly fainted at what I saw. The bridge was deserted, and half a dozen corpses lay around it, each of them mauled almost as if by a dog, wearing a sign which simply read “I FAILED IN MY DUTY” laid atop them where they rested. Of Halvorson and his men, no sign could be found – but the _Resolute_’s external protective gear was missing, and the vessel’s already meagre rations supply (remember, we were near the end of a long trek) had depleted by at least half._

_The only conclusion was as obvious as it was terrifying: We were on our own now._


	4. Chapter 4

_The first day of travel was the worst of my life up to that point, I think, and I had lived through the escalating chaos as the Earth descended fitfully into its apparently eternal winter. With the departure of Halvorson and his soldiers, there was no command structure – Mihail and myself were the only people left who could call upon any authority at all. It took over an hour to establish some kind of calm and prevent a riot or a panic, time which we would sorely miss later. But we did our best, holding an _ad hoc _council of several engineers and social leaders from each deck (one advantage of a clerical identity – you _always_ know who people really respect!). After a short debate, we decided to split into two groups; an “expedition group” who would seek Winterhome, and a “shelter group”, who would find shelter nearby and attempt to wait out whatever hope of rescue we could bring them. After someone timidly raised the question of “who would be in charge” of each group, I looked around and saw reluctance on every face. With a well-concealed grimace (I knew I would be blamed if we failed, after all!), I volunteered – and Mihail instantly volunteered to go with me._

_The first task was marshalling the swarm of human bodies into some kind of order – children and the elderly in the center, where it may be a little less cold, carried what supplies we could scavenge. The hardiest and sturdiest adults (including both Mihail and myself) stood in the two outermost ranks to face the worst of the wind, with the two ranks switching places every hour to minimize exposure to the elements. We left the “shelter group” with what supplies we could spare, knowing that we would likely never see them again – may God forgive us._

_As evening fell upon the group and the temperature plummeted, our small band of out-walkers (I cannot name them “outriders” with nothing to ride, after all!) located a pair of small stone caverns, into which we bundled as many children and infirm as we could cram. The rest of us, for whom there was simply not room within, bedded down together in pairs or threes in whatever cracks and crannies we could find in the stones, huddling closely to protect what warmth we could._

_That night was my closest encounter with pure Hell. For the most part, my memories of it are surreal, but the sheer icy cold combined with the sharp prodding of stones and occasional sound of predatory beasts to deny us all good sleep – I do believe that the cold lingers yet within my bones, months later. I may never truly cease to feel it. The next morning, when we awoke, thirty-six souls were gone – only two of those within the caves, but thirty-four of we outside them. We all knew the price; we all paid it, but tears flowed nonetheless at the small memorial service I muddled through. Mihail’s subtle prompting at key moments made it easier, but also led me to fear – had he seen through my lies? Or did he think me broken of mind? This fear gnawed at me every step the rest of the way to Winterhome, and beyond._

_The day did pass quicker with Colonel Rotherham’ scouts greeting us partway and signaling the shortest paths from their small hot-air balloon, however. “Only” five more perished on that brutal day’s march, and by the time evening descended, we could see the valley entrance into Winterhome clearly. We pushed on, to a hero’s welcome from the Colonel and his support staff, who had laid on a near-feast of steaming hot, savoury soups, stewed meat and freshly steamed greens, as well as allocating us the best housing available. Rotherham hurriedly took me aside even as we were filing into the square and explained that he had privately but sternly reprimanded Captain Halvorson for his lack of concern for the civilians, and asked me most graciously to please leave the matter there._

_I noticed that Rotherham seemed uncharacteristically disturbed – distressed, even. When I inquired as to what was uneasing him, he informed me that Captain Gittins had contracted a fever _en route_ from York. Some days before his dreadnought’s arrival at Winterhome, he had realised that his illness was worsening – and worse still, threatened to touch off a plague among his charges, as even the commander had not a private cabin. Showing both commendable courage and an astonishing lack of self-regard, he had followed this by leaving the _Royal Thistle _via an exterior port late at night, leaving behind written instructions which had gotten the_ Thistle_ safely to Winterhome…sans himself. _

_While his selfless sacrifice – may God receive him gently – ensured that the dreadnought reached Winterhome with near a full complement, it also ensured that Halvorson was the second-in-command now, and would assume command if anything were to befall Colonel Rotherham. Understandably, this knowledge perturbed me, but I understood why Rotherham wished tact & discretion in…developing Halvorson’s perspective. Thus, I agreed to his request in the interest of securing a better future, and declined to make mention of the dead engineers on the _Resolute_’s bridge. Would matters have turned out other wise had I stood on principle and publicly denounced Captain Halvorson? I do not know, and will not, until I stand at the foot of God’s Throne for my judgment. May it be merciful._


	5. Chapter 5

This day of exploring had been particularly rewarding; not only had Scout Team Two found a nearby coal mine (with a fair bit of coal accumulated, too – Winterhome’s backup mine?), they had scouted the nearby chassis of a wrecked vehicle, finding a precious steam core. That alone would net them a sizeable bonus when they returned to New London, and their supplies could last another week, more if James bagged another caribou as they performed the ground-based parts of their duties. For all of that, the resumption of Winterhome’s story started later this evening, thanks to Thomas’ insistence on carefully securing the core in their cargo hold. With the skeleton of Winterhome’s exploded generator still fresh in their minds, none had made even a token protest. When the story finally resumed, the mood in the cabin was tired and triumphant, which the warmth in Thomas’ voice both reflected and emphasized.

_For a time after our arrival, Mihail and I were minor celebrities of Winterhome. It was marred by the sorrow we all shared, as Rotherham’s scouts confirmed our fears about those who remained behind; only half had survived the three days’ wait until even his fastest scouts could get to them afoul of the wind. Perhaps oddly, even the families of the fallen bore no ill-will for their losses – they understood the choice we had faced, and while some had agreed and some had not, they all had said their farewells, and chosen to stay with the main group, knowing the likely outcome. Tales of our “daring trek” ran the length and breath of this cramped, wooden settlement faster than rumour of a warm breeze, and just as exaggerated at every step. I certainly was not aware of having personally terrified a polar bear into flight by invoking the power of Christ against it, for example! Yet, I have ever known how to turn circumstance to my own betterment, and the circumstances made such an endeavour trivial indeed._

_After some careful consideration, I decided to exert moderation, and discourage the full rewards & offerings I sensed people were ready to proffer – either despite my fears of exposure, or because of them. The only substantial reward I accepted was nomination to Rotherham’s advisory council. The position was one of little responsibility, much prestige and more influence, after all. Mihail gave no overt sign of awareness of my falseness, yet small signs showed here and there – a Book of Common Prayer mysteriously appearing on a shelf, a small circular about proper Anglican liturgical ceremonies doing likewise, and himself insisting upon attending to the more intricate aspects of the faith which people expected to see, as some examples. My uncertainty regarding his intentions continued to gnaw at me – at times, my companion seemed frustrated with something he could not name, while at others, we were at ease once more. More often than not, we slept in the same bed, again ostensibly for warmth – I was far too eager to accede to his suggestion of such, yet I also feared that he would any moment realize the true nature of my sins, and began pushing him away from me._

_Meanwhile, Winterhome was preparing for the transition from ‘temporary refugee shelter’ to ‘bustling community’; Colonel Rotherham’s wisdom and willingness to look farther ahead than the next meal-time made this time in Winterhome’s history a hard but hopeful one. He had no time for “fripperies”, as he described items and amenities most of us would consider the basics of civilized life; however, he was tenderly solicitous that we all slept in warm beds, that our work burden was no more than we each could bear, and that the food was both hot and nourishing._

_Winterhome’s layout, however, made little sense to me. Distributing coal-mining so widely risked inefficiency and health loss from the effluent, surely. While the hothouses were both gloriously beautiful and highly productive, there were only a relative few areas for hunters to lodge and utilize to supplement the foods grown there. And the street layouts looked as if a drunk had designed them – zig-zags here, individually-tiered homes there, and wasted land all over the place. The valley was only so large, after all! Rotherham’s aide-de-camp informed me at one point that it was intended to be “idyllic” and “pastoral”. It was pleasant enough so long as the weather remained relatively mild, but certainly not practical. However, in the main, life was good in Winterhome._

_Occasionally, hunts failed – understandable given Rotherham’s orders against hunting female animals or young – and soup was the order of the day. Conscious of Rotherham’s efforts, my own stature and Mihail’s expectations, I was the first to scold complainers at those times, and the community’s mood remained largely positive. My personal unhappiness I carefully concealed, <strike>lest it dampen the mood of the community</strike> _

_No. I have sworn honesty in this testamentary, and shall uphold that oath. _

_I concealed my unhappiness lest others in the community realize its causes, and ostracize or banish me thereby. I had become accustomed to the fame and high regard in which I was held; the stresses of living a double-life seemed a small price to avoid losing it. One incident which brought this worry into sharp relief happened around three months after our arrival at Winterhome, when matters with Mihail reached a head. We were arguing, I recall not over what, when Mihail answered a barb of mine by informing me that he did _not_ suffer night terrors, he had _never _suffered night terrors, and the _only _reason he had claimed otherwise was to spare my “stupid old man’s pride”, for he could see the horror in _my _eyes as that execution took place. To which I replied by stating that he was a silly, stupid little boy who needed to learn how the world worked, for I had seen horror before and not flinched from it, and he was but an insolent child who needed a lesson in good manners. The icy silence that grew between us after that quarrel only deepened and sharpened as we both refused to apologize for the hurts our words had inflicted, until we were colleagues and house-mates in name only._

_I missed Mihail’s warm physical presence in my bed, of course – even when a happy place, Winterhold was a cold one – but every day, I realized anew what I missed more. The tender smile which no longer warmed the living room as we walked in the door, the small nosegays of hardy Arctic flowers which were not replaced as they wilted and died, the painstakingly-gathered herbs which ceased to season our rations so gratefully, and so much more. Without ever meaning to, I had come to depend much of my warmth in this cold world on Mihail’s shoulders, and losing his affection froze some part of my soul. Even if you be disgusted by what I have written, take the lesson I learned to heart: Never be too proud to apologize. Never fear to show your love in every way, great and small – in this harsh world where lovers may be torn asunder without notice, every missed day is a tragedy._


	6. Chapter 6

_But enough of my sentimental rambling; I feel time running shorter every minute, and you did not travel all this way to read a pervert’s maunderings. Winterhome was a thriving community, the nearest thing I could imagine to a true city – over a thousand souls dwelt within its shelter. Other signs of urbanisation were to be seen, also – two tailors, for example, who set up offering different designs of clothing beyond merely the practical, or the fishmonger’s stall, which no longer served nameless fish stew, but a dozen different cold-water fish for customers to cook as they pleased, hauled in ice-carts from the new eastern outposts. People spoke of setting up glasshouse ‘farms’ in the rocky badlands surrounding Winterhome, to free up space within the town proper (needed as the town outgrew the “idyllic” layout emplaced by Col. Rotherham). Some especially optimistic souls mused about the possibility of operating mining colonies for bulk raw materials!_

_Even Halvorson seemed to turn over a new leaf – sent to supervise the coal-mines on the southeastern edge of Winterhome, I expected matters to deteriorate sharply. Yet while output did fall somewhat from where it was under Rotherham’ personal supervision, the miners were well-treated – only some of them were Halvorson’s soldiers turned civilians, yet the good treatment he offered them he also extended to the civilian miners. On one occasion where we met in passing, he asked for a moment of my time – it was with some trepidation I agreed, for I had not forgotten his misdeeds aboard the _Resolute_. Yet it was to beg my pardon that he sought my company; upon my prompting, he explained that he had taken command at the worst possible time, with both his parents being confirmed dead in the Liverpool riots. The horrors of witnessing societal breakdown, the grief of his own losses and Gittins’ sneering ridicule all combined, and something within him had “broken”. Following that, he had too frequently listened to the worst parts of his nature on the trip. My breach with Mihail had only recently taken place, and I felt the need for a friend. Moreover, he was so full of remorse and self-loathing, and so charming and sincere in his approach, I felt moved to forgive him on the spot and offer him my counsel in the future, if he should feel any need for it._

_We parted that day on good terms, I having instructed him to call me “Mark”, and he returning the compliment by bidding me use his given name of “Arthur” in private conversation. Despite Mihail’s coldness, I felt it important to let him know of this development, for he may have to deal with the Captain in the course of his own duties. It went well, until he stopped my hopeful speculations dead with one line: would that meeting bring back those people whom Halvorson had killed? I had to reply in the negative; of course, it could not. That rather put a damper on my mood, which Mihail seemed to regret a little; for the first time since our quarrel, he reached out and gently patted me on the shoulder as we retired to our beds, and my heart leapt within my chest._

_There I go again._

_A further couple of months passed – tis hard to keep track of the days at these latitudes, since the days are either excruciatingly long or all too short, so I am uncertain of specific dates. The mood in Winterhome was high indeed; we had raised our first steam-powered coal mines _outside_ of the town, so we need no longer be troubled by coal-dust and soot within. It was now that tragedy struck, and the fate of Winterhome forever altered – as Colonel Rotherham was inspecting one of the mine-tunnels, it collapsed!_

_I had been delayed by a mere happenstance; ministering Holy Unction (almost as a real Arch-deacon would, I flatter myself) to a miner suffering blacklung, I had intended to rejoin the Colonel partway through his tour. As the cloud of dust expelled by the collapse began to settle, the poor souls manning the mine were clearly bewildered and confused. Their leadership had been touring with the Colonel, and without any kind of authority – even foremen – outside the collapse, they had milled about frantically. They were good miners, but none of them were engineers or even leaders, and almost immediately a dozen or more started jockeying to trial their own differing avenues by which to achieve our shared goal of freeing the trapped. After several minutes of effort, I was able to establish my own direction about a moderate-sized group of them, whom I immediately set to surveying and clearing the rubble as practical. This also involved keeping other miners away, lest their well-intentioned (but ill-directed) excavations bring down the wrong rock at the wrong moment._

_We began approximately one hour after the collapse, and worked ‘round the clock, fresh workers replacing spent ones by turns. A surveyor, Leo Awbischer, directed the miners as to which cuts to make and which rocks to haul away, while I took a turn supervising the execution of his instructions while he took a brief nap some hours into the process. We made every haste we possibly could without risking further collapses, sparing neither ourselves nor our machines – the Colonel’s kindness to us had firmly endeared him to us, motivating us more than any dire threat of punishment could. Approximately seventeen hours after we started work, the last of the collapse was cleared, revealing…_

_…An empty mine tunnel ahead, and silence. Fearing the worst, we then turned to clearing away the rest of the rubble, desperately hoping that there was some trace of life to be found. Less than an hour later, we discovered the bodies of Colonel Rotherham and the mine’s officers – from the nature of their injuries, death had been mercifully swift. May the Almighty receive their souls gently. When I returned to Winterhome, it was not just the news which weighed my heart down. For Arthur Halvorson was now the leader of Winterhome, and to him all our loyalties were due. And while I had been favourably impressed by the changes in him since our trip north, I did not know how he would deal with the pressure his new role imposed._

_I feared that Winterhome was in for a grim time._

_Would that I had been right._

Thomas placed a book-mark in the sheaf of papers with great care, then looked around the cabin. “Given the end result, I think we might want to wait ‘til another time for the next part, crew.” For a moment, Padraigh looked like he might argue the point, then Penny squeezed his shoulder and he subsided with a sullen look.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a few days since the last time Thomas had read from the _Testament_ _of Winterhome_ – the manuscript had taken a grim turn in its latest telling, and a cold air-front had in any case fully occupied Scout Team Two’s skills staying aloft. On the fourth night since the last reading, however, the squall had ended and everyone was taking a well-earned rest break as the _Wayfarer_ rested in a small valley. Barely as soon as he’d taken a seat on his couch after dinner, he looked up from the small novel he was reading and noticed the whole team looking at him expectantly. Unbidden, his lips quirked in a half-smile. “…All right, then. Give me a moment to find where we were.”

Thomas reclaimed the manuscript from its draw, oblivious to the world as he leafed through the pages, re-ordering them from the jumble the _Wayfarer_’s past few days of aerobatics had left them in. Once this was done, he looked up and was – pleasantly – surprised; James had foregone his usual prowling and had already settled, his head within easy petting distance. Thomas rather fancied he knew why; still, he resolved to check later.

_Would that I had been right._

_It seems so obvious now; had Winterhome “only” endured hard times as Captain Halvorson found his feet, we would have looked back on this time many years in the future. And we would have seen the pearly tint of memories of adversity, and triumph, and all dulled by many years between them and ourselves. But instead – well, once again, I get ahead of my narration. I shall resume where I left off, at the moment Captain Halvorson took charge of the fledgling community._

_It was a solemn moment, of course; I had determined that I must travel ahead of the vehicles returning the bodies of Colonels Rotherham and his final travelling companions. The moment must be properly prepared for; no wild rumours allowed to sprout. So when the funerary group made their way through the grand main avenue to the Officer HQ in front of the Generator, Captain Halvorson awaited them, his sword raised in salute to the departed and his face appropriately grave. It was a mix of ceremony, custom and innovation that had the town’s intercom blaring out, just a few minutes later, “Now hear this, now hear this…” in what I am told was age-old military formula, transferring command from old leader to new._

_Part of me clung to optimism. Captain Halvorson – Arthur – had determined to become a better man than he had been on the trip up; here and now, he was stung by no waspish colleague, nor placed under the strait exigencies of the trip north, and his circle of toadies were no longer the only voices he heeded. Yet some part of me found this hard to believe, at least at face-value. Arthur had cleared his office of others at my request when I had returned, and I had given the news to him alone. Thus, only I had seen his face briefly light up – only briefly, barely more than a flash in his eyes, and until much later, I tried to convince myself that it was just a trick of the light. For his aspect was not that of a man learning of the death of someone they thought highly of._

_It was not even that of a man receiving happy news._

_It was the look of a man whose plan had proceeded without a hitch._

_I know that look; I have observed it countless times, often in mirrors. Needless to say, I was troubled by this, even as I attempted to convince myself of the falseness of what I had seen in that moment. His first handful of days on the job helped dispel the notion, as well – while much less paternal than Colonel Rotherham, he remained courteous in dealings with all and sundry. His first few proclamations were also of a moderate nature, if perhaps self-aggrandizing and pompous. I believe I still have some copies of several; I shall endeavour to place at least one with each copy of this Testament._

Thomas flipped through the papers until he found the proclamation’s copy, and passed it to James, who after looking it over passed it in turn to Penny’s couch. After they’d all had a good, long look at it, James – dear man! – gave voice to the cabin’s collective opinion. “…Wha’ a pretentious wanker.” A few chuckles and nods were the response James earned. With the matter settled, Thomas resumed reading.

_And so I ignored the first lesson learned by all who make their living dishonestly: Never ignore your instinct, for no laws protect you. For sure, none protected us in Winterhome save by Captain Halvorson’s leave. I ignored my instincts, and attempted to accommodate myself to Captain Halvorson’s new way of doing things, which was easy at first. It even helped that, when I confessed my unease to him, Mihail – dear, sweet Mihail – instantly reconciled with me, apologizing for having let our differences divide us. I would like to report to you, dear reader, that I confessed _all _my fears to Mihail, and we resolved the matter. But I am not blessed with an excess of courage as he is; besides my unease about Arthur, I confessed but the second of my fears – that I should inadvertently molest him one night if we resumed sleeping in the same bed. He simply smiled and…well, I won’t detail what followed, lest this testament be banned in every settlement. We slept together every night after that._

_For some time, the overwhelming joy in my heart offset my removal from the Advisory Council and my summary reassignment to the “old” cookhouse, near the Generator. Frankly, I did well to deflect official attention from Mihail, who was able to more-or-less continue his work unaffected…at first. And as a minor, local celebrity, everyone wanted to gossip with me even if I was now “just” a cook at the cook-house! On reflection, I didn’t get much more “real work” done at the cook-house than I had in the chapel – but I did get at least as much ‘pastoral work’ done and perhaps more, if with less invocations of a distant deity and an ancient text. None of this bothered any of my fellows, who shamelessly basked in my reflected celebrity._

_For a few weeks, all seemed…if not “well”, then at least tolerable and hopeful. My love was returned, Captain Halvorson hadn’t transformed into the tyrant he had become aboard the _Resolute_, and if the future seemed a little less bright for Col. Rotherham’s loss – we could bear it, as we had borne the other losses this harsh world had inflicted upon us. Round after round of proclamations followed, a marked contrast from Rotherham’s way of communicating new laws, and taking an increasingly…imperial tone. At first, it was just a few small things – new punishments for serious offenses, the establishment of a neighbourhood watch to deter crime or mischief, and so on. _

_Then the watch-stations were upgraded to guard-posts, and the tone changed, little by little. Instead of a colony, Winterhome was now a military camp. There was still a great deal of courtesy about it all, “Sir” and “Ma’am” from the guards and all the rest, but they were armed, and we were not...and the guards were people not well-liked within the community. Winterhome definitely had a smaller ‘feel’ about it, and I didn’t like what I sensed in the community – unease and a growing dislike of the administration. Rather foolishly, I informed Arthur of some of this sentiment – although not the names of those speaking it – and he received my advice courteously, even if I was ushered out of his office sooner than I was accustomed to._

_The next day, he actually visited me, in the cookhouse and all, and asked more direct – if still courteous – questions. Who had said what, who had expressed what, and so on. My instincts were now screaming of trouble, and this time I heeded them. So I confined myself to naming persons accustomed to the liberties afforded them under Rotherham. They were the loudest complainers; Arthur could hear their names from many others. However, I could not rid my mouth of the foul taste that lingered within, no matter how many shots of illicit liquor I downed. Nor could I rid my memory of the looks some of my co-workers gave me for the remainder of the day._

Thomas lowered the sheaf, looking at his team – the grave expressions on their faces matched his own. “...I think it’s time we all went to bed, before...” He left the sentence unfinished, and gently placed the papers inside their box when the others nodded. After securing it carefully, he stood, then started when a hand fell on his shoulder. “Oh! - James, it’s you. But - “ He was silenced by the Scot drawing him close and enveloping him in a great hug.

After a moment of simply feeling his lover’s care, Thomas embraced him in return. “...Yes, I love you too.”


	8. Chapter 8

_I had much need of liquor in the following weeks, though not nearly so much as I would have without Mihail. From public “naming-and-shaming” of critics, to “punishment detail” work, Arthur’s grip on Winterhome steadily tightened. Whenever someone grew bold enough to tax him with this at the mandated ‘morning gatherings’, he would nod, and smile, and withdraw part of the offending proclamation or rule. But never the whole of it, and his newest critic would soon be shamed along with all the rest, and assigned the worst jobs, and have rations partly or fully stopped, and so on._

_By this point, I had largely abandoned any real role in my ‘official’ job; I spent most of my days listening to the citizenry of Winterhome, offering consolation, advice and bits of scrap food to supplement their “official” rations. Sometimes I was obvious about my listening, others less so. My past as a Liverpudlian street-rat was invaluable in that last regard, and the sentiments expressed were far franker than in open conversation. The Captain was by now widely disliked, and many of his men were directly described as thugs and worse, no matter how polite everyone was in public. The state of affairs had deteriorated, there was no mistake of that. _

_After seeing the official displeasure visited upon the others whose names I had given, I was careful to share with Arthur no more than the generalities of the complaints I had overheard, no matter how he pressed me. I am many things, but I’m neither a snout nor a canary. To give him credit, he didn’t appear to hold it against me that I refused him the answers he sought._

_Compared to the pall which had blanketed Winterhome, the odd sounds coming from the Generator seemed little more than a nuisance at first. The lights still flickered on when pressed, the steam still flowed and so did the gas used in fires. Coal still poured into the bunkers both public and private and was burned more or less on schedule, and on our list of problems, a few odd noises were far, far down from the top. However, it soon became worse, especially with the cold snap the weather took – Arthur compensated by running the Generator at a higher setting, then setting engineers to work discovering ways to extend its effective range. However, he little understood steam hubs, and even less about where they were best placed or why. Neither was timber plentiful for extra insulation; I suspect I was far from the only person to sleep closer-entwined with their loved ones in these weeks. And I was one of those better-provided for, thanks to my good lodgings – and my very warm loved one!_

_At some level, I still held out hope, however tiresome it was becoming – Arthur still visited even though I was close-lipped and disapproving, he still listened and often bent at least a little to the demands of others…perhaps it was a futile hope. Perhaps not; we shall never know. What we know is the experiences we shared as citizens of Winterhome – for true barriers had grown between ourselves and the soldiery. The soldiers were provided with the best quarters; they had first pick of the food on offer; Arthur compensated them with “money” for their shifts, while the rest of us had “duties”._

_Oh yes – Arthur started printing money. An absurd notion on the face of it, of course! However, we had not nearly enough sterling to make-do as an official currency, so I suppose it was actually necessary. And the coins were much the same, save that they were made of steel rather than silver or gold. Her Majesty’s profile still graced their reverse, as it had graced the old sixpences and shillings and farthings, despite the unspoken belief that she had undoubtedly perished in the cold, gone on to a better place to reunite with her beloved Albert. Placing a woodcut of his own face on the notes was perhaps a step too far for good taste, though._

James’ snort interrupted Thomas. “Aye, bad taste that’d be, all right! Dam’ bawheid…” Thomas noticed that, unlike the times that piece of fine Highland slang was directed at him, James actually seemed to _mean _it here. Truthfully, he found it hard to object, over the ache growing in his heart – after all, the whole team knew already how this story ended.


	9. Chapter 9

However merited James’ observation had been, Thomas still felt it necessary to _thwack_ him lightly on the head with a finger. “Don’t interrupt when I’m reading. It’s rude.” Padraigh, tucked in nice and tightly between Penny and Lachlan on the other couch, made a rude noise at James, which prompted his own _thwack _from Penny. As the two men (children) settled back into silence, Thomas resumed.

_This period of unease, of malaise, lasted for – oh, six months or more, I believe. During this time, my only true solace, my companion, aide and comfort, was Mihail. The flowers never ceased appearing on our table, his smiles and embraces provided the only warmth that could reach my bones, his optimism was a balm to my ailing hope._

_Proclamation followed proclamation – there would now be an “Information Office”, by which the Captain’s understanding of events would be circulated to the populace. Fancy name for a slatted building of six rooms, but there it was. The glossy circulars were widely mocked; they depicted a version of events which seemed increasingly out-of-touch to those of us on the ground. The blaring of “encouragements” to the populace did little to rally spirits; indeed, the racket merely seemed to depress and irritate us all further._

_One brief rally was caused by our discovery of a genuine, _bona fide_, gold-mine to our west. A short-lived gold fever swept Winterhome, ‘til the realization seeped in that the gold truly meant little enough. Too heavy and cold to serve as cookware, too thermally conductive to insulate (as with all metals). A trio of enterprising artisans began crafting some rather nice pieces of jewellery (with Arthur’s blessing); the first wedding in Winterhome took place not long after, with the blushing bride receiving a genuine gold-and-diamond ring from her groom. _

_That ceremony was a genuine pleasure to preside over, despite the hours of study I was obliged to undertake to ensure I had every ceremonial detail correct. Even the weather co-operated, and the hothouse in which we held it was positively warm, sunny and well-lit. I fancy we all felt our hearts leap a little in our chests as the bride and groom kissed; the sun chose that moment to come out from behind its cover of fluffy white clouds, and backlit the pair gloriously indeed! Even the presence of Arthur, solemn and resplendent in his new, sleekly-tailored uniform afire with gold-thread embroidery, could do little to silence the murmur which followed that moment – or the gaiety of the veritable feast laid-on for the reception. Over a hundred people had donated some portion of their rations allotment to the event; befitting my ‘official’ duties, I catered. Mihail and I ate well that week, despite my many “private” donations of left-over rations and morsels to hungry families._

_However, these very positive events which brightened the gloom settled on Winterhome did little to dispel it for any lasting period. The working hours lengthened, rations shortened and coal deliveries to workplaces was halved. This last prompted a serious incident, when the worst-affected workers (Steelworks No. 2) engaged the Captain on the matter at an Assembly. Unlike all previous occasions, Arthur made no effort to even pretend to consider their ‘request’ (in truth a demand) to restore the indoor-heating allotment. He merely upbraided them as one, from behind his lectern and with the amplification of his personal microphone. “Selfish” and “ungrateful” were perhaps the mildest terms that he used, and even as unpopular as he had become, people were startled._

_Perhaps this was what provoked the acts of disobedience during that day and the next. Guardsmen were turned away from establishments on thin excuses, workers downed tools hours before the sounding of the off-duty horn at 2000, rations went undistributed to the central reserves, anti-administration graffiti appeared (on the HQ building, no less!) and more. The graffiti wasn’t badly done, either – though it was _very_ insulting, and more than a little risqué. So far as I could tell, there was no organization or driving single principle behind it – it was just frustration and discontent boiling over into action._

_As you can probably deduce by now, dear reader, Arthur’s response was…not pleasant. In a ropeable mood the next morning, he announced that “the ringleader” _would_ be found, and when they were, he _would_ have a prison ready for them. A prison! I exchanged glances with Mihail; we could hardly believe our eyes. Winterhome was a small settlement of around 1,200 souls – it had no need of a place for long-term incarceration, surely. But our confusion slammed to a halt at the following announcements. Henceforth, all workplaces would have detachments of soldiers assigned to them to ensure that productivity was maintained. All citizens – men, women and children – now had assigned work-shifts, and were not to be on the streets during working hours unless going to or from these. And, worst of all, a curfew was imposed: From 2100 to 0500, any citizen sighted on the streets would be arrested. _

_By the end of his tirade, I could tell that Arthur was pleased; he maintained a stern visage, but a gleam of satisfaction showed in his eyes to anyone who knew him well. I had misjudged him, and badly – I owed Mihail an apology. The guards clearly relished the prospect of (mis)using this change in roles to “repay” any slights or insults they had earlier suffered. For myself, I saw my sick despair also showing in Mihail’s features, and on the faces of hundreds of other Winterhomers._

_For how was this, in substance, any different from a perpetual imprisonment?_


	10. Chapter 10

As James retrieved the testimony of this “Mark Reynolds”, he raked a glance across the cabin, where the rest of Scout Team Two waited. For once, the mood was not in the least ebullient, despite the excellent progress the team had made in surveying the ruins of Winterhome. As promised, more copies of the “Testament” had been found, affixed to prominent locations near the edges of the settlement.

And the bodies of the dead had started to appear, too. Far fewer than might have been expected; perhaps some of the residents had escaped? The alternative presented itself to James – _perhaps they had all died and been buried, before Winterhome’s Generator had exploded _– but he staunchly refused to face it, even after a falling chunk of masonry had wellnigh brained Thomas. _Too damn close for comfort, that was - the idiot._

“All righ’, people – let’s get to more readin’. We need t’learn what actually _happened _to Winterhome. Should I skip ahead?”

Penny clutched her cushion closer, hugging it tightly. “Yes – this is painful to read about, and really doesn’t help anyone.” Lachlan and Padraigh both shook their heads, Lachlan concerned about the possibility of missing a vital detail, and Padraigh unhappy at the thought of “jumping around in time”, as he put it. James shrugged. “A’right, the Nos ha’ it.” It took a little time to find Thomas’ bookmark and where they’d left off.

_For how was this, in substance, any different from a perpetual imprisonment?_

_Over the next days and weeks, I think every one of us asked that question, if not openly, then in the privacy of our own minds. Tempers continued to rise, if unevenly – many of us were already accustomed to the conditions of industrial work-houses, to which these were little different, while others were more free-spirited. However, Winterhome was clearly no community now; it had fully made the transition to military camp or penal colony, without ever quite clearly realising it. The loudspeakers which blared ‘uplifting’ and ‘patriotic’ reminders of the virtues of obedience and loyalty, the guardposts maintaining vigilant watch for dissidents and ‘malefactors’, and other such new fixtures, were merely reminders of our now-unfree status._

_It was not quite all doom and gloom; a lively black market in ration coupons thrived, with the tacit acceptance of the Captain’s new Sutler-in-Chief, so long as he got “his share” in bribes and discounts. After a week or two, an enterprising soul learned how to forge such coupons, whereupon a trickle of false notes entered circulation and eased the grasp of officialdom somewhat. But for every step we took to evade the Captain’s new despotism, he took two to clamp down._

_Any person has their breaking-point; the point at which ill-treatment received exceeds their ability to maintain equanimity. It had come for several people, who had been provoked one time too many or too hard, and had lashed-out at their thuggish tormentors – and paid for it later. My boiling-point came when I observed the result of a fracas in the main square. The guards the Captain placed upon the cook-house were studiously invigilant in their duties, preferring dice and card games over their duties, and so I was taking advantage of a temporary opportunity for rest, when I noticed it. A child – a child! – was being tormented by a trio of guards. I recognized him; Billy Brown, an orphan who had lost a foot to frostbite before I had arrived in Winterhome, was the darling of the community. Billy’s upbeat japes and jests had ever lightened our days, and he had taken to mild, discreet mockery of some of the more corrupt guardsmen, which perhaps had provoked these here. They had taken his crutch, and were demanding that he play “hopscotch” across the entire square to regain it!_

_I must confess, dear reader – I am not a man of courage, but I saw red in that moment. Children were our future; to pointlessly, cruelly demean and bully one this way set every nerve in my body aflame, and I marched straight out of that cook-house over to the guards, demanding vociferously that they cease their cruel japes, give the boy back his crutch and apologise at once! I even invoked Arthur’s name to back my demand, disregarding my lesser opinion of him and the strain on our tentative friendship in my efforts. Either through my own swart fury, or through my invocation of the Captain’s name, the guards relented and dropped Billy’s crutch in the snow, sauntering away and snickering to one another – the sadistic curs._

_The look on Billy’s face was a complex one as I retrieved his crutch (those brutes had dropped it nearly thirty yards away from him) and helped him stand back up; it mingled chagrin, hopelessness and adoration in nearly equal measure. When I advised him to stay out of the guards’ sight for a few days, he merely nodded shyly and made his way to one of the many alleys leading from the square, but when he arrived, he looked back and motioned me to follow him. I was tempted, but declined – whatever the Captain had in mind, it was best if I remained visible for now. The highly flattering adulation which awaited me in the cookhouse (from both patrons and colleagues) most likely played more of a part than it ought to have, also._

_Later that afternoon, the Captain came by to visit me at work – he asked specifically for me, in fact. Our conversation was short, terse, tense and ultimately unproductive. Each of us was stood upon a mountainous principle which would not – could not – move; I upon humanity, himself upon authority. It ended with the Captain’s snarled order to never misuse _his _authority again in that fashion, and my rejoinder that he needn’t worry about _me_ mentioning his name in _any _context, ever again. Yet I went home that evening with a light heart, thinking the issue more or less settled. The Captain and I had cleared the air between us; we all knew where the lines were drawn now, sad though it was that lines were needed at all._

_That evening proved otherwise. It was very late, perhaps one or two after midnight, and we were of course asleep. Of the actual happening, I recall little, having been woken by the smashing of our front door and the guards’ storming into my bedchamber to find me alone there (Mihail was within the closet, having bolted there at my urging; fortunately, the guards were not seeking him, _and _were sloppy in the extreme). I was summarily handcuffed and force-marched to the prison the Captain had created. As though through a haze, I recall the initial “interrogation”, which mostly consisted of demands to confess my crimes, which I was too stubborn to comply with. I would soon become very…at home in the prison; I would remain in residence there from that night to the overthrow of Halvorson some weeks after._

_Of the events in the wider world during my weeks in immurement, I can say little aside from the ongoing escalation in noise made by the Generator, which had become an audible grinding by the end – a bad sound from any machine, as our experiences in the _Resolute _had underlined. For the rest, I knew only what other prisoners said, and at the start, they recoiled from me as though I had the plague. But I did learn that the Captain had publicly accused me of sodomising Billy, to which the boy – apparently with bruises aplenty across his thin face – had agreed. My secret – one of them – was out, it seemed, and I found it hard to be angry over having it revealed. But to accuse me of – of – of _that_, with a child? Even a sinner such as I would never commit such an atrocity!_

_The artist within me acknowledged its brutal efficacy; even if a miracle of mercy should move the Captain’s heart, my work in the community was surely finished. No caring parent would let me enter the same building as any child of theirs now. The Captain came to visit me a few days later, offering me a swift release if only I signed two documents; a confession, and a pledge of loyalty to spy for him. I spat in his face and refused both, both before and after the beatings that my defiance earned; I wish I could claim courage, but nothing so reasoned was at work; what fuelled my defiance was blind spite, bitterness and stubbornness. I would _never_ admit to such a heinous act, especially one I was innocent of. And even if I would, it would never be to _him_ – or for his benefit!_

_After he left in a black fury and a promise to _break _me, I took a moment to appraise my situation, and came to a logical conclusion: If my reputation were ever to be rehabilitated, I had to start at once. Whatever tales you may hear from any survivors of Winterhome, it was not generosity which led to me stripping down to my under-tunic and distributing my clothing out to the other prisoners. It was not charity which led me to feed Baites a fraction of my meagre rations as I nursed him through a fever. And it was not godliness which led me to lead the others in prayer twice daily – sometimes numbering more as more were imprisoned, sometimes less as some were released. It was desperate calculation, neither more nor less. I had nothing to lose, now; no reputation, no moral standing, no material prosperity. Anything I would gain in the future, I would gain by showing my fellow prisoners my best side, the best-side I kept carefully polished as befits a master actor, but still my best side all the same. I can, quite sincerely, thank the Almighty for my own survival during this period; I am naturally of hardy stock, and even prolonged deprivation could not kill me, it seemed._

_Days of immurement became weeks, which I suspect became months – at least one, perhaps more. The guards seldom varied in their treatment of me, but my fellow prisoners’ shunning of me eased, then ceased, as my carefully devised facade exerted its influence. Once I was no longer shunned, it was a simple enough matter to become beloved; even the children imprisoned there were permitted (by the adult prisoners) to socialise with me, much to their profit – I admit that I have ever held a soft-spot for children. By example, I instituted the idea that we prisoners would share whatever rations the guards allotted us, communally, instead of allowing those out of those thugs’ favour to starve. These, and similar actions, built my credit among the populace – my “social credit”, if you will – which would prove invaluable later._

_For other developments during this time, I yield to Mihail the writing, as he remained at-large during this period. //MR_

James looked up at the others; Penny still held her cushion close, but appeared almost as rapt as Lachlan and Padraigh, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder on their couch. He smirked as he fished out the indicated paper, prepared to tell matters from the point of view of this mysterious “Mihail”.


	11. Chapter 11

_To whoever is reading this_

_I am Mihail Alexeivich Korsilov, and I was free to observe events in Winterhome while my love Mark was unjustly imprisoned for crimes he did not commit. Yes, I love him. Yes, we are both men. No, it is not your concern; only mine, and his, and God’s. And I feel that we are due some forgiveness after all He has decreed we endure on this Earth, this vale of tears._

_I’ve read over Mark’s writing of events before this – most of it’s about right, but I’d like to make a few points clear._

_Yes, I was aware that he was a sexual invert, almost from the moment we met – the eyes never lie, and I am well-accustomed to my face drawing admiring looks. I rejoiced, and set-to seducing him almost as soon as that; he is delightfully solemn, handsome, with a low, sweet voice and a heart of gold he keeps carefully hidden. Who could resist the temptation? Perhaps it was the fact that the end of the world stared us in the face, but I barely even tried, ordained priest or not!_

_Yes, I was also aware that Mark’s claim to Arch-Deaconry was as reliable as a £3 banknote; he stumbled much too often over relatively basic theological questions to pull-off that lie, although his vestments were fine indeed. No, I did not care, even then – an Arch-Deacon and his travelling assistant are far likelier to be admitted to a chance at a new life, than a patronless junior priest with a foreign name. As with Mark, I desire to live, and God keeps those safe who keep themselves safe, after all. I will not begrudge any man a chance at life, until it comes at the expense of others’._

_And yes, the dreadnought’s breakdown was avoidable, even if the Devil’s grandmother lived in that boiler from the start. I blame that fiend Halvorson for it. Truly, he was a fiend from Hell sent to test mortal man. He was the worst I have ever encountered, but here I count the chickens, and it is spring yet_ (1)_._ _ I was struck by the horror – I thought I had seen the worst of humanity already – but seized the chance to get Mark close, hoping that he would take advantage. He did not, but the memory of that first, gentle caress of my hair as he thought I slept – that, I shall treasure both here and in the hereafter._

_Here we were, then – Mark stolen from by my side, myself no-doubt sought eagerly by that wretch’s vile informants. Well, it helped him not; both Mark and I had built fine reputations, of which mine at least survived that mудак’s_ (2) _mudslinging. Mark’s did not, but then he was accused of being the man, and I but the boy, and only by implication. The specific accusation – that he molested the boy Billy – was manifestly untruthful, but some дура́чим_ (3) _chose to believe it, so eager were they to ill-wish we who were happy. Дура́чим indeed!_

_Mark is reading this as I write it, and he says to “skip the personal curses and get to the point.” And aхал бы дядя, на себя глядя He also says not to write in Russian. Bully. So: What I said - the Devil rebukes sin. He blathers so much, and I must “get to the point”? Bah._

_Well. Here is the point. By the time that tyrant’s thugs came for Mark, already there was a resistance growing in Winterhome. Note I said “a” resistance in the specific, meaning a discrete group dedicated to bringing-down Halvorson. I knew of it, of course – people trust me. But I had not joined it, not yet. I did not want to cause trouble for Mark, and he was friendly with the tyrant._

_So: I joined, once they took Mark. Why not? And we worked together – always under cover, always pretending to just be at work, always careful. Having to remain out of sight, I set-to doing any and all work that needed doing – some injuries usually needed stitching, or salving, or cooking wanted doing, or more. Mark is right: I care not if a work is woman’s work, easy work or hard work. If it must be done, it must be done, and I may as well start doing it._

_About nine weeks after Mark was taken, the Generator, which had been making odd sounds for over a week, failed. In the panic of the citizenry at large, and as the Tyrant demanded order “to facilitate repairs”, we decided we were ready to move. But the night we planned for our overthrow of the Tyrant became two days of hell._

_One thing is important here, that Mark has not told you – perhaps he forgot, or considered it unimportant. My parents are (were) exiles from the court of the Tsar; my grandfather was a man of high rank and great Imperial favour, a _князь (4) –_ a Prince of the Empire. But he counselled Tsar Nikolas against his aggressions in the Black Sea, and his enemies used the resulting Imperial disfavour to bring him down. My parents fled to England, and as they had been involved in business there for some time, had plenty of money to give them and other relatives a safe landing. All of this happened before I was born, but my parents were still who they were, and insisted on “proper” upbringings for all their children._

_As part of this, I was given daily training in the weapons of the nobility as I grew up, before I decided to take holy vows. The sword, the pistol, the lance – these are as familiar to me as the Book of Common Prayer, the Holy Bible and the Sacramental vessels in any church. I was gifted superbly-made weapons even then, if only to keep as a token of my heritage. And in my bag as we clambered aboard the _Resolute_, months before, was my last remaining legacy from my family - my hunting-sword. This proved to be more than merely “useful” in this tumult; my sword was the difference between life and death at least three times in those two days._

_What we hoped to do was launch a _coup, _a mostly bloodless decapitation of the tyrant’s regime – a diversionary riot in the steelworks would draw off most of the tyrant’s thugs, while we would storm his headquarters, overcome his guards and end his rule. Quick and simple, yes? But it went much otherwise;_ _an__ informant had sold our plans to the tyrant, wanting only kopecks and his good favour. The diversionary riot in the steelworks turned into a massacre; outraged once and for all by the tyrant’s thugs, the populace swarmed into the streets and began killing every one of his lackeys they could find, who of course fought back. It was, in a word, chaos._

_The fighting spread across Winterhome; though badly outnumbered, the tyrant’s followers were expecting trouble, and soon, fires began breaking out. Here, as a symbol of the regime was burned to ashes; there, as a row of houses was torched to flush out we rebels; everywhere, as cookfires, lamps and heaters went untended in the chaos, and spread beyond control. All three of the coal mines within Winterhome exploded, one-two-three just like that; I never learned why._

_Two days of purest Hell; I do not know how soldiers fight wars, if that is what they are like! As the loyalists were whittled down in number, they defended an ever-shrinking perimeter – whatever else he may have been, Halvorson remained a competent military officer who kept his troops together. Neither did they abandon any buildings whole to us; all we got were ashes and charred steel skeletons, and the sight of yet another redoubt to overcome in turn. It seemed as though it would never end, until we finally confronted the tyrant in his “new” headquarters, the original having burned near the start of events._

_I was part of the first group in, and my only recollections of the early fighting there are disjointed flashes of blood, of terror and desperation on both sides. But the loyalists were by now a spent force; the headquarters and half a dozen other buildings were all they held still, and they _knew_ there was now only one way this revolt could end. The only question left was the price they could make us pay to rid ourselves of them. As the fighting reached the stairwell at the back of the HQ, I found a closed door – not locked, nor barricaded. No label, either. _

_As the door was unlocked, I had not known it was his office; I opened it standing to the side, then blessed my caution as a pistol-shot rang out through the doorway. Two more followed it as I twitched a lure across the doorway, then a horrible, spine-shivering _grrrrnch!_ sound, which I took to be a jam in the weapon. I took my chances and rushed in, getting a quick impression of the room, only to see…_him_. The tyrant himself, Captain Halvorson. _

_He looked perfectly at ease, I must acknowledge, as he tossed his useless revolver to the side and took up his sword, a beautiful relic of the British Empire, by now buried beneath the snows. He was calm, composed and carefully presented. He had even shaved sometime recently; no more than the slightest shadow of growth was present aside from his neat moustache. He gave little sign of annoyance beyond a minor thinning of his lips, saying only one word, in a bored tone. “You.” I replied alike - “...You.”, before raising my blade to _en garde _position; with no more words, we engaged. The Tyrant of Winterhome, and the one man who wanted him dead more than any other in the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Russian proverb: Count your chickens in autumn.
> 
> 2) Idiot’s / asshole’s
> 
> 3) Fools
> 
> 4) "Knyaz'" - Prince. A distinguished title in the Russian Imperial court, although not restricted to blood relations of the Romanov family.


	12. Chapter 12

_Mark looks shocked as he reads over my shoulder. I do love him, but sometimes he is such a – a baby, almost. He still thinks decency, and protection, and being good will achieve a task. But they do not. Priest or no, I wanted Halvorson _dead_, for what he had done to me, and to Mark, and to all the goodly folk of Winterhome. I wanted him dead for a host of sins, for crimes almost beyond number, and most of all…_

_...I, too, must be honest. I wanted Halvorson dead for revenge, most of all._

_I am not proud to say that, but it is true. As we engaged, the sweet song of steel meeting steel, the foremost thought in my mind was vengeance upon this Devil in human form. He had hurt me; worse, he had hurt Mark, who had only ever reached out to him in friendship, and for that more than all the other reasons, I would kill him myself._

_The fight lasted longer than most; as any professional soldier will inform you, a typical sword-to-sword duel lasts less than a minute. But the Tyrant was taller, heavier and more experienced than I; I was better-taught, younger and quicker. We were evenly matched, I think to the surprise of us both – certainly, the look on his face changed swiftly from one of contempt and anticipation to one of calculation and the raw joy of battle against a worthy foe. I returned his sentiment whole-heartedly; he _was_ a worthy foe for my steel, I give him that much._

_Back and forth, we fought down the corridor; the side-walls and low ceiling prevented any but the simplest of footwork, but they also hampered the Tyrant’s great height and bulk, and so they were equally hindrance to us both. Rebels and loyalists alike removed themselves from us as our combat approached; in fact, the fighting seemed to die down as our duel heated. Either that, or I was simply not hearing it as my focus narrowed to the Tyrant and myself. Most likely that, now that I consider it._

_After some time, we were both winded, he more than I, and the air stank of smoke and burning flesh – the building was burning to the ground around us, and I had to end this _soon_, or else I would never leave here! It was then I saw my advantage. The doorway I was retreating past opened into an empty room; it had already seen its fighting, corpses littered the floor and the far wall was splintered already from the fighting and flames were visible through some of the gaps, but it would give me room to move! I ducked into it, as quickly as I could, and taunted him to follow, which he did._

_Once in the more open, more complex area, we were both more able to fight to our strengths – but I was quicker to realise that than he. Even as a powerful swing cut the air horizontally, I was already ducking, rolling beneath the bench which separated us. And as I came up, my blade led the way, impaling him to the hilt on his left side. In that moment, we looked into each other’s eyes, he and I, and something resembling understanding passed between us._

_He groaned and sank onto the floor as I caught him, dropping his own blade. I recall his words, and I always will. “Ffffucking Russian bum-boy...finish it, you pansy. Do it proper, like.”_

_I eased him down onto the floor and pulled my sword from him. “...You know nothing of our love, or any other, you cволочь (1). Go to the Devil.” With no more words than those, I left the Tyrant, groaning on the floor in his agony – and it was just as well I did. I was forced to dodge falling timbers more than once, as the grand building was in the final stages of dying to the flames, and no sooner was I out of the building, than I had to duck as the entire structure just...exploded. I am quite serious, it actually and truly _exploded_, as though it were a barrel of gunpowder! The cheering of the crowd was a memory never to forget; old, young, man and woman alike, we had won!_

_It was in the aftermath of this, as reality settled around us, that we rebels began to appreciate the scale of the destruction. Already run down to a shadow of its former promise, the city was devastated. And worse of all, the one place that _deserved _to burn, t__he prison, was one of the very last to burn. As a security feature, it was made of solid stone, very hard to get out of, especially when the door was jammed shut by fallen eaves. After the Tyrant fell, I was called that way, and my heart stopped in my chest as the flames licked at the eaves above me even as we frantically removed beam after beam._

_When we finally removed them all, the door opened and people flooded out, guards and inmates both – I had no eye for them, so frantic was I! Where was Mark? At the very end he came, supporting an old woman – fortunately, it was he who was nearly naked. But he was so self-assured, he may as well have been the Tsar attending morning ceremonial. He looked, in a word…_

_…edible._

_Mark is blushing; it is adorable! But truly, I but tell the truth! His weeks of deprivation had removed his very last bits of excess flesh, and I could practically see through his shirt, to where this lovely little trail of hair – _Here, the ink was splotched and illegible. “Mmm, must be we’ve the originals, then.” The trio sitting opposite James snickered, well able to ‘see’ what must have happened.

_Ahem. Mihail can be – uninhibited, especially now. His adoration is always charming; in truth, I return it. Mihail’s face in rest is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen or ever shall; his joy lights my day; his love warms my heart. The sight of him, in that moment, flushed with exertion, his face alight with joy as he caught sight of me helping Maude MacMurrough out of the prison (the dear lady was suffering an attack of gout, and could not hobble out nearly quick enough), set my heart to jumping within my chest. And for the record, I was _not_ “nearly naked”; I still had my trousers and undershirt. The only reason I didn’t also have a shirt was that I had recently used it to bind several ex-prisoners’ wounds._

_The world narrowed around Mihail; all else fell from my sight as we embraced for a timeless moment. Without even a word exchanged between us, nor any spared for any other, we ran down the road together, Mihail indicating the way with a jerk of his head, stopping in the first intact building we found – someone’s home I’m sure, though I cannot recall whose. There, we…took some private time, he and I, even as the last of the Captain’s loyalists were hunted down in the streets, in the warehouses and outside Winterhome proper, which burned merrily about us._

_When we woke up the next morning and left the small, secluded home we had sheltered in, I was shocked by how cold it was – you might think I would have become accustomed to it during my imprisonment. Mihail saw my shivering, and laughed and mocked me lightheartedly for it even as he helped me gather blankets to use as an impromptu wrap – those seemed the sweetest moments of my life, with a light scattering of snowflakes drifting down to us, and Mihail’s laughter ringing in my ears. I had learned my lessons from the past years of chaos and disorder; I enjoyed the moment to the fullest extent I could, for as long as I could._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) swine


	13. Chapter 13

Thomas looked around the cabin – the _Wayfarer_ had only gained scant gleanings today, but at least he felt fully recovered from the head injury that had nearly killed him. However, James – _overprotective as always _– had forbidden Thomas from leading in the field today. Perhaps he had a point - as James was all too fond of reminding him, two inches to the right and that roof-tile would have brained him neatly. “So, I’ve caught up to where James took you all last night – “ He raised a hand to stifle the protests this started. “I haven’t gone past the mark he left.”

Padraigh spoke up; on the couch, with Penny stroking his hair, he looked younger than he truly was. “You promise, sir?” He received a solemn nod in reply, as Thomas said gravely, “I promise, on my honour, I have read no farther than James’ mark.” Sitting on Penny’s other side, his fingers toying with her free hand, Lachlan shrugged. “Well then, what’re we waiting for? On with the bedtime story, sir!”

_We made our way to the central, open area, Mihail and I – we knew not what to expect, but the skeletons of buildings we passed seemed an ill omen. Winterhome, our city, our only shelter against the omnipresent cold, was ashes and char around us. But as we went, it was not all doom and gloom – in the distance, we caught glimpses of buildings that looked only scorched, and others that were apparently intact. That did much to ease my mind about the possibility of us recovering from this disaster; however, the Generator’s ongoing silence did not reassure either of us._

_As we crossed the last block of burned-out ruins to get to the Generator, we heard voices up ahead; men, women and children alike, with voice after voice raised in argument. I gently nudged Mihail behind me; I knew that he could handle himself in a fight, but I did not wish him to get into one in the first place. To my surprise, he actually acquiesced, and I walked out of the doorway to the former HQ apparently alone. The scene was Pandemonium personified; dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Winterhome’s citizenry were gathered into shivering clumps and groups, arguing about a dozen or more topics at once. After the merest moment, Edward Stuart (one of our carpenters) noticed me and elbowed one of his co-workers. “See, I told you the Father would make it out – that Russian’s mad about him!”_

_The silence that followed his remark was so absolute, a pin could have been heard dropping to the cobbles of the road. As it became awkward, the pressure I felt to speak up grew, until I could bear it no longer. “…What’s this about, then?” I slowly, carefully swept a glance from left to right, taking in the masses of people assembled. “Who’s in charge here, with Captain Halvorson dead?”_

_At that question, a dozen or more voices started up again, causing a racket to once again erupt. “Well –“ “You see –“ “Complic-“ “No-“ “Yes-“ Under the barrage, I felt my grip on reality slipping, and did the only sane thing. _“Enough!”_ A confidence-artist’s greatest tool is his voice; mine was a finely-tuned instrument, one which could be quite impressively loud if I do say so! As a shocked silence once more descended upon the square, I tried to mitigate my abrupt demand for silence, while studiously ignoring the implications of people actually honouring it. “Sorry for shouting – but one at a time, please!” I glanced this way and that, looking for someone _sensible_ to explain just what was happening. The silence stretched to discomfort, when I finally found one of the faces I was looking for._

_“…Prue MacDermott. You’re sensible; please tell me why we don’t have a Generator running.” Prue – one of the first female engineers in Winterhome, who hated her full name, Prudence – came to the front of the crowd. “…Well, it’s like this. We’ve fixed it, for now at least – but we didn’t have orders to turn it back on.” I sighed – go figure, this was where Arthur’s monomania for “order” and “authority” would lead. “Prue, we don’t have a Captain anymore – there’s no-one who _can _give the order. Just…turn it on, will you? I’m liable to catch my death of cold out here.” She sketched a salute and dashed into the Generator building, ducking between clumps of people and somehow mystically accumulating other engineers as she did so._

_“Alright, that’s that sorted. Esme Harris, you still with us, old boy?” The burly stonemason stepped to the front of his knot of people, his West Country drawl somehow a comfort in contrast to the previous minutes’ bedlam. “Right here, sir.” I spared a moment to appraise him; Esme remained as solid – as stolid – as his preferred Cornish slate. “What’s the score, Esme?” For the first time in my memory, I was treated to the sight of Esme looking…uncertain, and my awareness of the rest of the crowd began to narrow out of focus as I concentrated on parsing every gesture, every muscle twitch, every tic in his face. “Spit it out, Es – who’s in charge, and where do I report to now?” He looked around for something – support, approbation, whatever – whatever it was, he seemed to have received it from the crowded people around him. “…You are now. Sir.”_

_As the crowd erupted in a roar of dissenting voices, you could have knocked me over with a feather._


	14. Chapter 14

Thomas spared a moment from his reading to glance over at the couch; there, Lachlan, Penny and Padraigh were listening, apt. _Hm. I see serious potential here for child-rearing. Mind you, given the subject matter – perhaps not. _He gently pushed James’ shoulder to get his attention; as the Highlander turned to glare up at him, James tipped a glance at both of their empty glasses.

Once his love had returned from the bureau with two full glasses of whiskey and a complimentary scowl, Thomas gave him a sunny smile. “Thank you, James.” Once James was resettled on the floor, Thomas sneaked in a short caress of his flaming orange hair in more concrete thanks before continuing.

_…I was now the Captain. What._

_As I looked around the crowd, I concluded that Esme had been telling the truth; while there was plenty of disgruntlement and cynicism, very little disagreement was expressed. I tried to salvage the situation. “What about Mary Campbell? She was on Rotherham’s Council, and she knows how to run a – “ I trailed off as Esme shook his head. “She had an ‘accident’, sir, not long before the revolt.” I tried again. “Doctor Townshend?” This time, there was a pause before Reg Burke spoke up, a few people away. “He was executed not long after you were sent to jail. Theft of supplies, _he _said. Bullshit!” This set off a cascade of agreement; I saw that this would divert into a listing of grievances against a dead man unless I redirected it. Thus, I made the fatal mistake – I accepted responsibility._

_“…All right. All right. Say I am in charge. What needs doing?”_

_As the Generator groaned to life, the rest of the day faded into a seemingly-endless procession of tasks, orders, priorities, and similar. I know the value of historicity and would recount what happened – but I honestly do not recall each order, each detail. I only recall that it was long after the sun set that I slumped down in the chair in the Generator’s second-floor office, sitting in the Captain’s seat for the first time. I had spent the day supervising the inner-city clearing effort; that is to say, the task of clearing away the ruins in the inner rings of Winterhome’s streets. One adult to two older children was my preferred ratio of workers for this; I hated (still do hate) child labour, but with the situation so dire, we could not afford to spurn any resource to get Winterhome back on its feet. I believe the term is “exigency”._

_I have learned to detest that word._

_One adult to two children for clearing away ruins; organized gathering-posts for unheated portions of the ruins; no children in any industrial workplaces (coal extraction, steelmaking, and so on). Besides the need to rebuild the city, several major problems loomed large. With space so scarce thanks to the poor layout, the city needed to be redesigned – and urgently, unless we wanted to build Winterhome a _third _time later on. _

_Most of the food stores had burned in the revolt; while the one that remained was stuffed full of frozen foodstuffs, it would not feed over six hundred mouths for long…and the hothouses had all been destroyed. Without any clear space for hothouses, that meant that our hunters had to fill the gap. Fortunately, there was at least some space for facilities for them, even if I still suspected it would not be enough. But it would stretch the stores, giving us more time to re-establish hothouse food production._

_Then there was the lack of steel – one of the steelworks had burned to the ground in the fighting, and the other would take forever to supply all the steel needed to rebuild from the ground up…not to mention any repairs the Generator would need. So that rubble had to be cleared, as a priority – but it was much too far out for even the steam hubs to heat it. This meant a new hub had to be placed, and meanwhile I absolutely refused to assign children to clear out rubble and ruins at such temperatures._

_Then there was medical – which was a whole basket-ful of nightmares on its own. Then there was housing. The list appeared to be endless, and by noon on the first day of my “governance” of Winterhome, I passionately rued volunteering myself for the job. This would become a familiar refrain, at least within my own mind, from then to now. I have wanted to put down this burden since I first hefted it; however, there was not and is not any way to do so. Not given the demands Winterhome would face._


	15. Chapter 15

_For a week, matters gradually improved in Winterhome under my command. The first two or three days was touch-and-go; the extra medical posts I had scraped the resources together to build were inundated with tidal waves of sick, injured and just plain tired people, and I grew accustomed to hearing ominous muttering wherever people saw me passing by. I quickly abandoned the Generator office for anything except somewhere to sleep; our home had been one of the casualties of the revolt, and the notion of lording it “above the people” was one I didn’t want to grow accustomed to._

_I think a turning-point was when Doctor Amboise (“Martha”, to her friends) brought an urgent matter to my attention at our first regular Council meeting. Her normal effervescence was somewhat subdued, as she brought up the matter of severely-injured patients. If I recall the exact words correctly, “Captain, we have a problem. The medical posts we have established can’t handle the injuries and illnesses we’re getting in, and we’ve neither the tools nor the space for a proper infirmiary yet.”_

_I recall leaning back in my chair making a “go on” motion as she finished, but she just…looked at me, as if I had the answers secreted in a pocket somewhere. “So, what do you propose to do about it? I’ll ask our engineers to see if they can knock out some proper tools –“ A chopping motion of one hand cut me off. “You don’t ‘knock out’ surgical tools, Sir. You make them right, or it’s worse than nothing at all. And that will take _time_; I’ve seventeen frostbitten, critically ill or collapsing patients _now_. What do we do?”_

_Fortunately, Prue – lovely, lovely woman that she is! – spared me the need to pry answers out of the doctor. “What _can _we do, Doc? What are our choices?” The rest of the Council nodded or “hmm”ed agreement with Prue’s question, and Amboise blanched at the responsibility Prue’s question implied – it was then I realized the truth. Dr. Amboise _knew _what had to be done, and it was deeply unpleasant – probably unethical, as medical ethics were held to be in our civilized days, prior to the Great Winter – and she wanted to pass off responsibility._

_I captured her attention (a simple trick with most people), and gave her a hard look, and she gave in. “We have…two real choices, Sir. Option one; keep them alive. We’re pretty sure we can prevent anyone from actually _dying_ and wait for better facilities and tools to be established later. But it will lead to our sickbays being clogged with critically ill patients; further, we don’t know when the engineers _can _have the tools ready for us.” Once again, I leaned back, this time deliberately softening my gaze. “And option two is…?” Dr. Amboise – Martha – tells it straight, I’ll give her that. “…We operate anyway. We take chances. We explore alternatives that are unproven. Sir. Some will die under the knife; others will be crippled – but most will be saved.”_

_In that moment, I was too shocked to speak, appalled that a doctor – a healer – would speak so directly of causing harm and death. Then I realized that she could do nothing else; not only had I directly ordered her to offer the options she had, but _not _choosing would also kill people. Was this what leadership was like? Knowing that no matter which path you choose, there would be blood on your hands? Dr. Amboise made to speak, only to stop as I raised my hand. After a minute – perhaps two – I found my voice. “…Do it.” She looked at me quizzically, apparently not quite sure what I referred to. “Take the risks, do the – radical procedures. The least harm, to the fewest people. It’s the best way forward, Doctor.” Her face clouded with doubt, and she found it hard to meet my eyes. “If it helps, I’m making it an order.” At that, she finally nodded._

_I could recount each and every such Council meeting; however, my time is limited and I honestly believe that such recitations would serve little enlightenment. So I shall describe the key decisions we made to save Winterhome in this first time, and the reasoning behind each._

_To aid with the tidal waves of wounded, frostbitten and seriously ill – engaging in ‘experimental’ and other radical treatments. From thirty-five, our number of amputees swelled to fourty-four before the situation stabilized; however, the situation _did _stabilize with the opening of Winterhome’s first full-scale Infirmiary on the sixth day of my leadership._

_To aid in caring for the disabled (amputees, and those ill beyond our limited ability to care for them) – creating specialized “care houses”, which would free up medical facilities and provide ways to easily care for the amputees. Each would house twenty; we built two rather than three, reasoning it would be better to have a few “overflow” amputees than to have a nearly-empty care house._

_To help re-enkindle a community spirit, to bring the town back to life – prayer-halls. Not only was this in line with my persona as an Anglican clergyman (though I fear suspicion had begun to spread), it had a galvanic effect on the spirits of all who lived nearby. One frequent feature of small towns and settlements has ever been that the church is the centre of social life; with the establishment of three such in Winterhome, the air of being a half-living ruin faded almost overnight into being a struggling community. Of all the changes we made during this time, I credit this as being the single largest factor in our success._


	16. Chapter 16

Thomas looked around the _Wayfarer’s_ main cabin. Scout Team Two had finished searching Winterhome, and had found several other oddities. A huge amount of space was simply vacant, the remaining buildings were far too few to account for Winterhome’s populace, and most importantly of all – there was not a single Steam Core in the city’s ruins. These marvels were the invention of the late Professor Hawkins of Cambridge University, and they were part complex thermal regulator, part perpetual heat source and part electrical converter and distributor. In the superarctic conditions of the Great Winter they were not only convenient, but nearly essential, in the construction and maintenance of advanced technology.

Thousands upon thousands had been manufactured at vast expense almost as soon as Prof. Hawkins’ designs had been verified, and time and again they had proven to be worth every penny. Sadly, Hawkins had guarded his designs closely, no matter what lavish financial inducements the Government had offered, and every attempts to disassemble and analyse a Core had failed, typically destroying the Core in the process. With Professor Hawkins’ disappearance in the second year of the Winter, the supply of Cores was assumed to be fixed and the recovery of any was the highest salvaging priority of both scout teams.

Yet Winterhome had none. Not inside the city, not at the coal mine, nowhere that was obvious whatsoever. Only the one Core had been found by his team, and that in a junked vehicle located at the bottom of a ravine – where it presumably had been lost by Winterhome’s people, then revealed later by the whims of the wind. Why? Where had they all gone?

Perhaps the _Testament _would have a clue; although this “Mark Reynolds” had been determined to avoid turning into an accounting ledger, he surely would mention the disposition of items of such value! Glancing surreptitiously around the cabin to ensure that everyone else was in fact asleep, Thomas sneaked out the _Testament_ from its draw, and started reading the spidery lines, trying to pry out the locations of these treasures from the mass of words.

_A major development during this time was the three times we located survivors trapped beneath rubble. The people of Winterhome – my people – moved heaven and earth to rescue each and every one of these people. The first rescuee was none other than Billy Brown, the boy whom Arthur had beaten an “accusation” out of as pretext to imprison me. I still recall my first sight of him as he limped into the shaft of light which lit the basement; he flinched – flinched! – upon seeing me above._

_I would have none of that; caring little if spectators read more sordid motives into my actions, I impatiently waited for Billy to be lifted out of the cellar, then embraced him closely, joined very shortly after by many other people present. For a few moments, we simply stood there, one giant – warm – mass of humanity, silently celebrating the rescue of one of our own. Then Billy started coughing, spitting to the ground thick gobs of mucous – with blood interlaced throughout._

_I remember standing there, paralysed with fright and indecision, as Dr. Amboise and a pair of her attendants pushed through the crowd, obliged the young man – child – to lie down on their stretcher, and carried him hastily to a nearby medical post. Only then did my joints seem to unlock and my eyes become able to look at anything else, and I became more aware of propriety and decorum. However, I saw no condemnation in my fellow citizens’ eyes; they too were moved by the fact that we had succeeded, and either overlooked or simply cared not for propriety. As I swept my attention across the small crowd, I knew that this victory – minor and petty by some reckonings – counted for much more than the life of any one citizen of Winterhome. Much more._

_The second instance of finding survivors was far less cheerful. While we set-to with just as much hope and enthusiasm in finding our people, what we found was five of Arthur’s…supporters. It took mere minutes for the first demands to expel them from Winterhome to reach me, while the calls of others to refuse expulsion were equally strident, if fewer. Lest you believe that this was a case of ‘mob rule’ at work, dear reader, let me assure you that partisans of both sides cited reasons to make the declaration they wished – but the demands of those calling for explusion were more compelling, and resonated to the core of my being. These were base thugs, after all. Crooks, murderers, violators of our community, supporters of a wicked and tyrannical leader, and so much more. That we had already lost so many, that they were still human, that we were supposed to be better; these I saw as mere bagatelles, sops to mawkish humanitarian sentiment, and I scorned to abide by them._

When he reached the end of the page, Thomas felt a weight on his head and looked up. It was Penny’s hand, resting on his head, and the look on her face was one he’d seldom seen directed at him. She wasn’t even angry; she simply looked _disappointed_, as though Thomas were a child caught stealing the last biscuit in the jar. “Penny, I – “ He stopped as her hand tightened, pulling his hair almost painfully. “Put it down, Thomas. Right now.”

Even as he gently replaced the parchments in their box, Thomas felt the need to justify himself. “I was just –“ Her slap caught him by surprise; fortunately, she hadn’t intended to _harm _him, just sting him, but it still hurt! “Thomas, we’ve watched you and James get closer and closer, and that’s wonderful – but you’re pushing the rest of us away. All your time spent with him, all your smiles given to him, and now you steal even this, even the experience of discovery, from the rest of us?”

He felt his face burning; Penny was right – he _had _neglected the rest of the team. Lachlan, with his cool head in a crisis, Padraigh and his endearing naivete and idealism, and Penny herself, the one among all four of his companions that he had known the longest. He alone knew that until the Great Frost came, she had been a prostitute in Liverpool; she alone knew that together, they’d bluffed his way through his “initiation into manhood” from his workmates.

He had comforted her when abortifacients she had taken – not being able to afford to bear a child yet, much as she wanted to - damaged something within her womb, rendering her permanently barren. She had taught him how to sing and play the Irish harp, which she had learned as an innocent girl in County Killarney. He had helped her escape an abusive madam’s cathouse in a daring rooftop escape from the madam’s thugs; she had accepted his predilections with barely a shrug and kept his secret, and had been there for him when his parents had died so suddenly just after the Great Winter started, keeping away creditors and vultures alike with invective fit to make sailors blush. And when they had set out to catch a rumoured convoy of survivors heading northwards – of all directions! – that too had been together, masquerading as husband and wife to avoid harassment.

And now he was doing this, stealing from her – and the rest of his companions – the shared thrill of discovery in his selfish desire to read ahead _now_. He felt something inside him squirm in shame, which he considered only right; his actions had been shameful, after all. Absorbed in his own self-hatred, Thomas barely noticed her hand release his hair, take the box and make sure it was well-shut. “I’ll be looking after this for a while, my Tommy – and once we’re back in New London, we’ll discuss your punishment for this.” Despite himself, Thomas felt a thrill chase through him at this half-promise; Penny’s inventive mind always devised delicious, yet torturous, punishments, and he both expected and feared that James would feature heavily in this one.

“Now, back to bed. You can catch the rest of us up tomorrow night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So: This is it, this is where I'm at. If you've kept with it thus far, thank you for the company - and any suggestions would be gratefully accepted. If not, you're not reading this, so FUCK YOU! (jk, jk)


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